Interference
by Orchisse
Summary: Following Gríma's banishment from Rohan, Éowyn is disgusted with him. Furious, she makes up her mind to decide his fate for herself, heedless to his will.


Cursing softly, Éowyn was one of the last to emerge from the Hall of Meduseld; most of the court and countrymen had congregated just outside the great stone steps to witness the sentence of the Wormtongue. Not knowing what to feel, she had lingered — watching — as Gríma was immobilized and forced away beyond the entrance doors, his struggling form having been overtaken by the guards that followed.

Her uncle had awakened.

He had returned.

She had not realized the extent to which King Théoden had deteriorated under Gríma's craft; it had occurred so gradually that she merely wondered at his change of persona over time as nothing more than a worrying illness of the mind extending outwards — a melancholia, or some other crippling weariness of life. A thing akin to a plague of defeat and sadness which infiltrated the entirety of Edoras.

Of course, many suspected the Wormtongue — herself included — but there was no solid proof to sufficiently affirm any distrust until now; Gríma was clever in this. He simpered and scraped to them all, concerned and thoughtful and slippery; a strange and foreign snake in a realm of congenial, bold creatures.

It was no wonder that no one really knew how to contain him, to manage him. Elusion was no hardship to one such as he.

Éowyn closed her eyes, weary. The day was hardly over as yet, but it had been long; filled with sorrow, pain, hopelessness, fear…joy.

And, now that everything had changed so suddenly for the better, a simmering regret remained that would not leave her — over an intangible thing which she could not quite name.

She glanced behind to the empty seat perched beside the throne, a slow swell of anger prickling the back of her throat.

It was too late now.

Ignoring her flaming cheeks and thudding heart, she clawed her skirts into bunches and stalked towards the open threshold, joining the others.

* * *

It was bright outside; brighter than it had been in days — brighter that it had been this very morning. Gandalf the White certainly made his fortuitous presence known.

Éowyn looked down, having halted her steps just outside the Hall. Below were her enraged uncle, the ranger called Aragorn, and the ruined Councillor — downed and scrambling backwards in the weed-patched dirt. The rest followed, eager to behold the long-awaited spectacle.

Even she felt a small, cold tendril of satisfaction as she watched. Gríma's panic and desperate pleadings both tugged at her conscience and made her want to laugh, incredulous at his audacity. The rising frustration and helplessness that followed disgusted her — it seemed his sway had not left, despite the goings-on in front of her very eyes.

But in the next moment, a silent rush of panic overtook everything: Théoden King raised his sword, fully prepared to slay the traitor once and for all…

Only to be stopped by the ranger, who was full of calm whisperings as if to mellow a wrathful beast.

She let out a breath, feeling ill.

The Councillor rolled away, snarling and spitting upon Aragorn's aiding hand, and Éowyn was spurred into action, never more disappointed with him in her life. She grabbed her skirts again and made her way down to the very core of the scene, determined to be composed.

By the time she reached her uncle's side, Gríma had torn his way through the crowd of villagers, screaming hatefully, sprinting towards the stables with his dark cloak billowing behind him.

"Uncle," she spoke firmly, eyeing the dark shadow in the distance, gauging her time; "I ask that you not let him go so freely. The Councillor knows a vast many secrets of Rohan; I know he must. I understand that Lord Aragorn means well," she added, glancing warmly at him. "And I thank him for it. But outside these walls, Gríma will do us no good. He possesses means to cripple us even further." Éowyn faced her uncle, imploring.

Théoden narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, studying her face. "Éowyn, he will not return. There is no master here to which he swears fealty. He would be imprisoned, with careful watch to keep him," he warned before sneering into the distance. "The traitor is most likely gone, and I will not send good men out after him now. It is a shame; he has made his choice, and will have to stand by it." He turned to leave, signaling the guards to fall back to the Hall.

Éowyn would not be dismissed. Not this time. Not when there was so much at stake. The Worm knew things. "Let me go," she burst out, revealing more than she meant to. "He would harken to me, you know he would."

Aragorn raised his eyebrows and Théoden stopped, half-turning back to her in reluctance. Éowyn held her resolute expression, unwilling to yield.

Théoden sighed. "Long have I feared this," he confessed quietly. "If you feel you must, Éowyn, then do as you will. Have two men accompany you." He motioned for the guards to join them, but Éowyn resisted.

"No, my Lord. He will not even consider had I anyone else with me. I know him. He retreats when threatened."

The King sighed ruefully, clenching his fists, one hand's thumb rubbing an adjacent finger. But then he was stern and replied, "Very well. _But not beyond the boundaries of Rohan;_ I will not have you risk your life for his unworthy cause."

The Shieldmaiden nodded, adrenaline coursing through her at the challenge. She curtsied, blinking furiously and pressed a kiss to her beloved King's hand. "I am so glad you have come back to us, Uncle. I will return to you before long."

"Go," he simply commanded, kind resignation on his face. "If you cannot convince him, then no one can. See what you might do, for good or ill."

Éowyn went. She turned and rushed along the same path the Councillor had taken in such livid haste, listening to the vestiges of the crowd saluting the return of Rohan's monarch in her wake.

* * *

The stables of Edoras had always been a comfort to her. Whenever she was upset, Éowyn would find refuge in the high wooden rafters, the smell of warm hay and horses, the sounds of scuffling, neighing and snorting.

It held no comfort for her now. All that her mind fed on was her rage, her nausea at events unfolding the way they had.

_Gríma had once been kind._

And now, years later…

Her mind reeled. She knew his banishment was only expected from the state of things, but now that it had happened, now that he was gone, it seemed against all good instinct. Visions of his little oddities and courtesies towards her through the years came flooding back, all tainted.

_Idiot slug of a man. Who cowered beneath a grain of salt yet left a trail of slime…_

Clutching her skirts in two fists, she ran down the straw-scattered dirt floors, whinnying horse heads flying by on either side of her, as she searched for her own steed to catch the Worm with.

She passed the corner that harbored one memory — from when she was very young — in which she had cowered, ashamed and frustrated, whilst _he_ had come to cheer her up with a present; one which she would be forever grateful to him for: her early right to be taught weaponry and defense. He had come to her in the earthy barn, with the news that he had verbally challenged her uncle, brother, and cousin most fervently on her behalf…and won.

Éowyn remembered having kissed him then; a new girl of fourteen, pulling his face to hers and embracing him with all the exhilarated fire for the future she had been feeling at the time…

Panting, feeling pained, she now shoved those memories away, uncomfortable at their remembrance. She had not thought about that day in years, and wondered at its significance now…but knew it already:

_That was the day everything had truly changed between them_.

Cursing under her breaths, dashing towards her mare, wrenching open her stall and quickly strapping her in a set of reins, Éowyn snatched up her whip and mounted the bare back of the beast, kicking her into action. The horse was aching for a run, and obeyed her mistress swiftly, snuffling, and sped towards the doorway, out towards the boundary of Edoras, the city gates just ahead, and no far black figure in any direction that she could see.

Yet.

She did have a ways yet to go.

Spurring her horse forward, Éowyn sped through the gates, out onto the open plains, allowing her mare to gallop like the wild thing she was.

Searching madly for the errant Councillor, for he should still be somewhat visible upon the miles of moderately even grasslands, she eventually spotted a distant cloud of dust hurrying northwest towards the Westfold. And Isengard.

There he was.

Smirking greedily, she jerked her heels into the flanks of the beast under her, flicking her whip, urging a faster gallop. A new surge of sickening fury coursed through her, such as she had not known since her mother wasted away, abandoning them all.

How _dare_ he assume another master.

_How dare he slip away without a thought._

_Without a fight._

The animal's body heat added to the friction of Éowyn's bare legs astride the hide. Leaning forward, clenching her knees and thighs to the tense, shifting muscles of the beast, she lifted herself just above the horse's back to avoid impeding jostles, heedless to anything but her hateful target.

Still in the distance, he gradually became a rippling black blot betwixt the greenland and mountains.

Every passing second he seemed nearer and nearer, yet so far. An ugly trait so revoltingly fitting to his person.

Her brain could not process much else. Only vengeful, pained snippets of their vacillated past; she had once been young, he had once been her deepest confidant.

More than that.

Eyes sore and stinging, she narrowed them against the elements, unwilling to think about what she was doing. Her nose watered with the cold, her memories; she paid it no heed. Let it sicken, let it be tired, wasted, rotten. Let her eyes wither and her knees bleed to their bones. Let a thousand orcs come hunting for her. As long as _he_ did not escape his fate.

She let out a brusque shout to the horse, baring her teeth at the ameliorated pace, never losing sight of the Wormtongue.

Riding hard for long, rage-fueled minutes, she saw him clearly now, riding ahead nearly as ferociously, yelling harsh words at his own animal; most likely due to his hearing her clamorous pursuit. He did not look back.

Prideful, cretinous man.

Éowyn growled loudly, giving the reins a good crack, commanding the horse ever faster, mane and hair and gown whipping behind thunderously in the wind.

He was close, so very close.

_A few more feet…_

Before she knew it, she was directly behind him, could reach out and yank his dirtied cloak from his bent back if she so wished…

He must have sensed her proximity, for instead of driving his steed further, Gríma risked a panicked, mostly unseeing glimpse over his shoulder, and then another that, once he fully registered her lone figure, betrayed his shock.

"_GRIMA_!"

Upon her yell, Éowyn heard him emit a noisy curse; he reined in his horse too sharply, causing it to shriek and rear up to the side, almost dismantling him. She did the same with hers, but with a more practiced hand, allowing the horse a wider berth in which to turn, finally settling down upon its back again, noticing she had rubbed both of her knees raw during her vehement ride.

Both beasts circled each other, hooves pounding the earth, regaining their bearings after the drastic change in motion. Gríma seemed unable to speak; he merely eyed her with unabashed astonishment.

The Shieldmaiden granted herself a moment or two to let most of her anger ebb to a simmer instead of the near bloodlust that had fueled her thus far. Now that she had caught the man, Éowyn sagged a bit, realizing that her shins had suffered rather more than she had thought. She leaned over her horse, peeling back what little of her dress covered them and looked down at the inner sides of her knees — they were most certainly skinned. Badly.

She cursed. Of course. Far be it for him to make anything easy or painless for her.

Glancing up at him, she saw that he had stopped entirely, and although further away than before, he did not move; merely sat atop his horse and examined her. Her bare legs seemed the most interesting to him, although he frowned momentarily at the state of her knees.

Upon meeting her gaze, he turned away almost instantly, gritting his teeth. "What could you _possibly_ want from me now, _Princess_?" He spoke the last with such unveiled disrespect she would have slapped him had he been within reach.

Unable to resist a jab — perhaps it was the stinging of her knees that prompted her — she retorted; "Indeed, I have come after you _solely_ to be the object of your misplaced mockery, _Councillor_. But then again, I suppose none shall ever call you as such now; _for_ _you have no title to speak of_." She felt particularly pleased at his vicious glare, his disgusted snarl.

"_WHY HAVE YOU COME THEN?_" he bellowed, white-faced; wrathful. Desperate.

Éowyn grit her teeth, but did not provoke again. He was a ruined man — entirely by his own doing, of course — but one who has lost much nonetheless. She sniffed, avoiding his piercing eyes. "I am here because," she heaved a frustrated sigh. "Because…you cannot leave. You cannot go to Saruman."

His face transformed into a nasty grin. "On the contrary, _my Lady_, I can and I will. _Get out of my way_."

"I will not!" She burst out forcefully, angling her horse to block every which way he ushered his own. She could not let him just go. "Why did you do it, Gríma? You have…been with us for _years_…"

"I owe you no explanations." He replied coldly. "Especially now." Again, he did not wait, but flicked the reins, directing his steed around hers.

Éowyn blocked him again, able to maneuver her horse with more fluidity. "I desire one nonetheless. You were a friend to me, once—"

"_I would always have been a friend to you_!" He exploded savagely, eyes blazing. He drew in a long, bubbling wheeze, shaking. His face folded into itself with frustration, and he moaned, "You have been so _cold_ to me ever since we had—"

"I know." She admitted, shamefaced, unwilling to remember. "And I am sorry for it."

"_Sorry?_" he spluttered, unbelieving. "Éowyn, you had barely spoken a _word_ to me in the weeks afterward; following that, any real discussion was shunted aside—"

"You changed as well," she interrupted fiercely, clenching her fists. She would not let him twist the conversation. Not anymore. "Do not lay the blame solely on me. Only you are master of your own thoughts, actions. _You_ lurked in the shadows, dismantling our politics for the worse, our war tactics — do not think I had forgotten the incident with Éomer and the orcs — and _you_ had begun to weaken my Uncle with your lies, your poisons, and Valar knows what else. Yes, I was aware — do not look so surprised. It was a marked difference to me. And you dare to wonder why I resented you."

Gríma flinched away as if she had struck him. He fingered the reins in agitation, silent.

Éowyn sighed, feeling both vindicated and incredibly foolish. "I know not what more to say to you."

He shot another angry stare at her from under his brow. "You might answer my prior query, Princess. Why have you come _now, _with such…_haste_, I might add." Blue eyes traced her legs.

Annoyed, she stated: "I had only wished to catch you before you reached the Wizard's Tower. That is all. But as for the why…" she shifted uncomfortably, focusing on her physical pain to fortify her loss of pride; "I would…ask…that you not wound Rohan more than you already have."

Gríma raised his hairless brow, waiting, knowing instinctively that it was not entirely what she meant to say.

Éowyn grimaced, cursing his very existence. "And because…when my uncle nearly slew you…" she growled, frustrated with her inability to speak, along with the fact that _she _was supplicating to _him. "_I could not just…you could not just _leave_."

He seemed to understand. Clearing his throat, he remarked dully, "If I were to return, I would be imprisoned; a fate far worse than any awaiting me at Isengard, at the hands of Saruman." His eyes raised to hers. "There is no incentive for me to _stay_, my Lady."

She inhaled sharply, choosing to ignore his intended prompt. "If you were to help us — truly help us, I would see to it that you are forgiven by the end of the War, if you are not already by then."

"You cannot see into the future, my Lady. What makes you so certain there will _be_ an end to it? Or that you — or anyone — will even survive it?"

"It is true; I cannot know for certain what lies ahead. However, what I do know is that Rohan has regained its sovereign, whereas for years it had none. Today we have a White Wizard of our own who means to assist us in any way he is able, whereas before we harbored no hope in this world. We might even acquire aid from Gondor and the Elven lands with our new visitors." As she spoke, Éowyn felt a long-absent excitement stirring within her despite herself. "Gríma, this is the _worst_ time to submit to cowardice. You must be _strong_."

A corpse's smile wormed its way to his lips. "Yes…a noble trait; one I do not pretend to assume."

Rolling her eyes, Éowyn longed to shake him. "For one so clever, you are remarkably stupid. I remember a man — an outsider — who bore the harsh rumors of our court for years. One who, despite his lowly origins, dedicated himself to knowledge and learning — when such intense study was frowned upon as unnatural. A man who would withstand unjust beatings from those who were threatened by his oddness. One who would continuously comfort a sad, angry girl, and made her right to weaponry a reality despite all opposition and no immediate reward. I had not forgotten."

Gríma was staring at her, wide-eyed.

Squaring her shoulders and matching his scrutiny, she noticed a drop of blood forming at the corner of his lip. "What are these actions if not proof of your endurance?" she said, her tone surprisingly gentle.

He seemed breathless. "I…was not aware you held such an opinion of me, my Lady."

Éowyn said nothing for a time, reluctant to correct him, before blurting: "I speak as I found. It does not extend to your recent decisions, but…you _are_ strong. I would ask that…you continue to be."

Frowning thoughtfully, he locked his eyes to hers; plain, direct, intense. A look of a man with nothing to lose. "I would Princess, if, in turn, it meant that you would be mine."

Oh how she dreaded this; but had not expected anything else of him. In a way, perversely, he had not disappointed her. "If you do, and continue to help us, to be someone we can someday trust without fail, as I used to…it is a distinct possibility."

A beam lit his face; he looked almost insane. Approaching her horse with his own, holding out a hand for her to grasp - which she did - he whispered to her: "Done."

For awhile neither said any more, both pensive of what was to come. Gríma would be subjected to horrors, really. Not a single person in Rohan was aligned with him. Her uncle would not be lenient — he had spent years of kindness on Gríma only to be repaid with betrayal. Théodred was dead, and Éomer unforgiving. Saruman would find a way to tempt him again at his lowest — most likely by supernatural means; and Gríma may already have a few tricks up his sleeve reserved to pick loopholes in their agreed promise…

And she was hardly a practiced politician.

But she was his only tether; against the will of Saruman, the inevitable onslaught of despair, and his potential to continue to ruin their country from the inside out. Éowyn was the only thing keeping Gríma in line, the thing around which he centralized every action…

The game would be long, and complex, and it was vital that she not misstep.

Poisonous thoughts continued to race through her mind as the pair of them slowly returned to Edoras. And, turning towards her dark companion and his mixed mood, Éowyn felt ill once again, wondering just what, exactly, she had done.


End file.
